


Cold

by Cernunnos



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Affection, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cernunnos/pseuds/Cernunnos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conrad never anticipated having to live as a vampire. He never anticipated being forced to live with Luce Worth in a ramshackle apartment after his condo was ransacked by a hunter. He certainly never expected the first winter to be so cold and unforgiving. But maybe, just maybe, there's a silver lining in there somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

It’s colder than a witch’s tits outside. At least, that was Worth’s claim – more like a blasé warning I suppose – as I made to slip out the front door. I personally wouldn’t know how cold a witch’s tits are; though, I’m sure he does. I can, however, safely say that it’s pretty fucking cold. Yesterday saw at least a foot on the ground and the weathermen projected another six inches tonight. Of course, Worth managed to turn that into a lewd forecast for _me_ , but I put a stop to that right there. Hunting is top priority tonight… Not that I’m turning up much success.  
  
Finas had warned me that winter, especially the first winter after turning, could be hard; but I didn’t expect anything like this. Food’s scarce when the storms hit, and while I can drink from Luce every once in a while, it’s not going to be enough to sustain me for very long without draining more than he can cope with losing. As it is, I’ve already probably drunk too much; he’s been acting jittery and weak since my last feed. I don’t even blame him for not putting up a fight about my going out; who would mind a parasite latching onto a new host now and then?  
  
I’d drink from blood bags if we had any, but that’s been another problem. With the streets covered in ice and snow, and our only supplier of dubiously legal products being so fucking paranoid, Lamont’s been coming by less and less. Luce says this is usual behavior and to not worry about it. He says as soon as we get a good, clear day, Lamont will run us plenty more supplies (both for business and personal use), and that once we get a good Spring thaw, things will be back to normal. I know better than to doubt him, but I don’t really think he understands the implications of being snowed in with a hungry vampire. I don’t want to do anything to hurt him…ever. I’d rather just leave for good and starve in a ditch somewhere before I ki- No. I’m not even going to think about _that_. Spring just needs to hurry its ass up.  
  
Of course, food scarcity is only half of it. I can’t stay warm, and every minute I’m out here with the wind ripping through the layers of clothes I’ve thrown on, I can’t help but understand a little more clearly why Finas dresses the way he does all the time. Even in the apartment, it’s so drafty that my movement has gotten noticeably sluggish, and it seems to take more effort than usual to work on my projects. There’s a heater, of course, but it’s old and not exactly the most trustworthy object in the place. I don’t even dare turn it on because I figure it’ll burn the whole building down; Luce is the one that knows when and how to fiddle with it. Earlier, when the nights had just started to get chilly and the days not much warmer, I’d made the mistake of curling up and sleeping near it, only to wind up rolling over and burning myself. After that, I just had to settle for pilfering all the extra blankets I could.  
  
Luce doesn’t seem to mind the cold, though, which is fortunate I suppose. He’s never seemed particularly hot-natured, so I can’t tell if it’s biological or if he’s just conditioned himself over the years. After all, he didn’t even start living in the apartment until after I started coming around; he lived like an animal in the back of his clinic and I know for a fact that space isn’t heated. It twists my gut to think he used to consider that ‘home’. Curled up on that filthy mattress under newspapers, take-out cartons, and dirty clothes with one of his ‘piss cans’ nearby… Christ, he may as well have been homeless. Set up like a king of vagrants, maybe. At least slightly better off than the fellow I pass by that’s huddled himself up under a park bridge.  
  
It’s crossed my mind more than once that I ought to just drink from him, but… He’d die. I know he would. No one could handle this kind of cold _and_ blood loss. And even though I’m sure Cas would give me a lecture about survival instinct or Darwinism, I just keep walking. I don’t want anyone’s life on my hands – not even a street person’s.  
  
As luck would have it, there are a few people out this evening: forced, I suppose, to make their own runs for necessities. I manage to lure another man, not much older than myself, around a corner. Minutes later, he blunders back out toward the street, barely conscious of what just happened. In the meantime, my stomach is as full as it’s going to get for a while. I can hold out at least a few days, and that should give Luce some time to recover, or Lamont time to creep by.  
  
Slow as I am and thick as the snow’s become, it doesn’t make much sense to even try flying back to the apartment. By the time I slip back in the door, the city’s gone silent in the wee hours of the morning.  
  
“Any luck?”  
  
He’s almost exactly where I left him, flopped back on that well-worn couch. The only difference is that, this time, he has a half-eaten bowl of Spaghetti-O’s resting on his thighs.  
  
“Yeah,” I reply. “It’ll get me by.” I don’t speculate aloud for how long, and Luce doesn’t ask.  
  
I’m half way out of my first layer when I realize that, in spite of old habits, I really shouldn’t take my coat off at the door. The air in the apartment isn’t much warmer than it is outside, and I can tell he hasn’t had the heater on this evening. I wonder if he plans to just succumb to hypothermia and freeze himself to death. I suppose it’d be a much more peaceful way to die than mine.  
  
From the corner of my eye, I can see him staring at me as I struggle to get the coat back on. During a time like this, I just have to swallow my pride and parade around this place like a damn fool in all these clothes. One or two layers are fine; I prefer them, actually. But four or more make me feel like Ralphie’s little brother from ‘A Christmas Story’ – like if I fall down, I’ll never get back up.  
  
“Oi, fuckwit, c’mere. I got a cure fer wot ails ya.” He’s abandoned the remnants of his food and risen to his feet, beckoning me toward the hallway with a single, claw-like finger.  
  
I’m sure he intends to ‘warm me up’ with a rough fuck – that’s his cure for _everything_. I’m so tired, though; even after feeding, the hunt itself and getting back to the apartment has pretty much drained every ounce of spare energy I’d stored in my body. I’m tempted to shoot him down out-right, but instead my feet just plod along the threadbare carpet.  
  
My expectations are not met, however, when he pauses midway down the hall and throws open the battered closet door. I’ve seen the space before; I know this whole place like the back of my hand – every square inch of it. The hall closet contains an old, broken down washer-dryer unit. Or at least, it _used_ to be broken down. Apparently, Luce managed to throw some hoodoo its way and get it running again; though, by the way it’s shaking and rattling, it sounds like it’s only been revived to its last legs again.  
  
He stops the dryer and, from within its confines, pulls out a large blue blanket: the kind you’d find in an emergency kit in the back of a car. There’s an expectant look on his face as he holds it out to me, but I’m not following, or at least, not fast enough for his liking because an irritated scowl works its way over his features.  
  
“Fer a nest,” he clarifies.  
  
I feel my jaw slacken for a moment as I stare dumbly at the fabric – slowly absorbing the impact of the gesture. He fixed the dryer so I could make a nest...  
  
“Fer fuck’s sake, hurry up an’ let’s get it set ‘fore the whole thing goes cold ‘gain!”  
  
This is enough to bring me back to the moment at hand and I nod, mumbling a quiet, “Uh…Yeah. Thanks.”  
  
Now he’s headed to the bedroom with me still trailing behind, but this time his motives seem ridiculously purer than what I’d expected.  
  
The chance to leech onto all this extra warmth makes it all worth expending the energy to take a bat’s form. Soon enough, I’m curled in the middle of it and swaddled in heat. Through a tiny gap left in my big, blue cocoon, I can see him set me down on the bed. There’s shuffling, the mattress creaking under his weight as he settles down on the dingy pillows, and then there is darkness as he pulls the blankets over everything to keep me… To keep _us_ further insulated. He shifts again, fussing a bit to get comfortable, and I feel my nest being clutched and drawn up against his body.   
  
When I wake again tomorrow night, it’ll be cold and I’ll probably be hungry; though, I won’t let him know that. None of that really matters right now. As I begin to doze, all I can think is that, if there’s any benefit to enduring this terrible winter cold, this must be it. This _must_ be it.  
  
I won’t hurry Spring.


End file.
